The deep silence of the thirteen thousand spectators was as great a compliment as could be paid to man or bull, and Fuentes knew it. He knew that the audience expected such play, before the death stroke, as had not been seen in Spain for years, and he did not mean to disappoint them. Still marvellously fresh, considering his doughty feats and loss of blood, Vivillo showed no distress. But he had become visibly thoughtful, as if realizing at last that this was no wild sport, but the end of all things.
Fuentes waved off his men—“fuera gente,” knowing that this sign of serene courage would thrill thirteen thousand hearts, already warm for him, and adjusted his red muleta to the small, spiked stick which secured it. Then, graceful as a wave which rears its crest to breaking-point, he moved towards the bull, wary yet defiant.
Vivillo, as if to prove the power and fulness of his lungs, bellowed for the first time since he had entered the arena, as he hurled his dark body upon the torero, his huge head down. The muleta met his horns and smothered them, to be swept up and away, while Fuentes stood motionless, smiling. But to the agitation of the audience, instead of following the muleta's scarlet wave, Vivillo halted with horns lowered to gore, and charged the man.
Lightly Fuentes stepped aside, tempting the bull again with the muleta; but Vivillo would have none of it. Then came such [pg 360]give and take between man's skill and brute's ferocious cunning that the audience lost all self-consciousness in watching.
Nearer and nearer Fuentes and Vivillo drew to the barrier. Now they were close to Tendido Number 9, and mechanically I lifted my eyes from the arena to find Pilar. She was no longer to be seen there, and I thought that she had fled before the death. But as Vivillo made a lunge which all but caught Fuentes, a door in the barrier flashed open, flashed shut, and a girl stood in the ring.
It was Pilar in her white dress and lace mantilla. She had left her seat, gone down alone to the entrance of the tendido, had waited her chance, and slipped into the arena. But she could hide no longer. At sight of the girl's figure, white against the dark red barrier, a wild, warning shout went up. Two or three of Fuentes' cuadrillo ran towards her, but with a passionate gesture she motioned them off, holding out her arms to the royal box.
“Pardon, pardon for Vivillo, the brave bull!” she cried. And I knew now that this was what she had meant from the first. If Vivillo were brave, if he won the respect of the King and the crowd by supreme strength and courage, she had hoped to save him as other bulls had been saved from time to time, since, in earliest days, Spain had followed Roman customs. I had read of those pardoned bulls and heard of them from my father—one hero, may be, in ten years. For this she had come; for this she had sat watching Vivillo's blood flow, waiting until he had proved himself so brave that thirteen thousand voices might join hers in asking the bull's life of the King-President.
At sound of his name, cried in those dear, familiar tones as if calling him from across the valley of death, Vivillo raised his head, turned his back for the first time upon the enemy, and bounded towards the girl. Horrified, the audience shrieked at her, at him, waving their hands, throwing hats into the ring in front of the bull as if to distract him from a helpless victim. But they need not have feared. His sides heaving under their mantle of blood, Vivillo's rush subsided to a trot, as in the home-pasture far away. Half-blinded with fury as he had been a moment ago, the kind young face and voice loved by him since he was a calf at his mother's side brought Vivillo back to himself. Hope must have quickened in his heart as he heard that call, which in old days had meant choice food and sweet caresses. It was the call of life, and he answered it with gratitude.
IT WAS THE CALL OF LIFE, AND HE ANSWERED IT WITH GRATITUDE